


eight shows a week to beelzebub

by windupgirl



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 04:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windupgirl/pseuds/windupgirl
Summary: He doesn't regret killing Maxwell Roth.





	eight shows a week to beelzebub

His hands shake when he remembers what he’s done and he feels sick to his stomach with grief, but he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t regret it.

Not during the day, at least. Alone at night it eats him alive.

The rhythm of the train like a lullaby soothes him, but every time he sinks like a stone into the grey haze of near-sleep, he dreams of Roth’s mouth. It’s all he can think about, lying awake in the devil’s hours with torturous lust simmering in his belly and his hands clenched into white-knuckle fists above the sheets.

He stares into the formless dark and draws a map in his head of London—first its streets, then its rooftops and sewers, the winding course of the Thames,  _anything_  to keep his mind occupied… but then he comes inexorably to the Strand, to Leicester Square, to the Alhambra, and the thought settles on him again like a stone, Roth’s mouth hot against his own and slick with blood, the taste of it on his tongue like iron.

Then he’s sinking again into something halfway between reverie and memory, a hazy fantasy of that mouth wrapped greedy and wanting around his cock. He imagines fucking into the welcome wet heat of it so deep that Roth gags, and the delicious constriction of his throat is heaven, delirious  _heaven_ —and then he comes back to himself, jerks awake gasping and flushed with his cock straining against his trousers, so hard that it  _aches_  and he can barely stand to fumble his buttons open without groaning, breathless.

Most nights he bites his lip so hard it bleeds, just trying to keep his hands off himself. Most nights he’s in agony before he relents and works himself to grim and joyless orgasm with blood in his mouth and shame burning, burning, burning through his nervous system.

The bird, taxidermied, sits behind glass on his desk, dead black eyes watching.

(Sometimes he says  _God_  when he comes, sometimes  _please—_ , mostly  _Roth_ , a wretched sob into the silent dark).  


End file.
